


Cut-out Cookies

by Lauand



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mild Angst, Searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauand/pseuds/Lauand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Einstein was right. Arthur was wrong</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My deepest thanks to avierra for the help beta-reading this (once again). Concrit welcome.

 

A lot of animals hid their symptoms so that, when they finally died, you hadn't seen it coming.

Eames hadn't seen it coming.

Not that Arthur was dying. Or an animal, because he had the kind of over-analytical mind that made for anal retentives and sticks-in-the-mud of the highest class. And sure, the man had instincts, instincts that worked, but that was not the thing. The thing was...

Eames hadn't seen it coming.

“Sure,” he said instead of asking why, of searching for a sign he had missed, something wrong. He even managed a very natural smirk and a wink. “It was fun, though.”

He didn't try to read Arthur's expression. He was not one to overthink everything. He knew beforehand it would lead him nowhere. After all these months, he could be sure of that.

“See you around, Arthur.”

He didn't kiss Arthur goodbye. He never did. It was not the kind of thing they indulged in. Not because they were denying themselves, it just didn't seem like the thing to do, like the impulse was not there. There had been other impulses, though, and those had come naturally for both of them, and Eames had thought that it was enough, but obviously it hadn't been.

The door clicked softly shut when he went out. He briefly pondered his course of action. Getting drunk was not a stereotype he appreciated right now. It implied some maudlinness and worse, weakness, that he didn't really thought fit him. Gambling didn't look appealing, either. He only went for melodramatics when there was an audience who clapped afterwards. He decided to go back to his hotel and think, because he was at a loss and he didn't enjoy the sensation. He didn't know what he was supposed to be feeling right now. He just hadn't seen it coming.

 

///

 

Arthur read a lot. He supposed that it was not that common an occurrence amongst other, less sophisticated, criminal rings, but he had never understood why, since half the job of a criminal was to wait. In airports, in safe houses, in hotels, in warehouses, in cars. Wait. With nothing to do but read.

Dom and Mal, coming from the academic side of things, enjoyed reading, too. But for them it was like that kind of sport you took pleasure in but never felt like practicing. Arthur always felt like reading. Literature, essays, articles, textbooks or the trashiest romance novels. Arthur loved reading. Arthur knew Eames didn't, but he didn't want to think about Eames.

The thing was, Arthur read a lot. A lot. And he had thought he was above letting the fiction influence him, but maybe he had been wrong. Or maybe, maybe it wasn't the reading, it was Dom and Mal. Because their life was the kind you found in books, good books, the ones you could and wanted to believe in. So maybe it had been them, and not the stories. Even being moderately good at knowing himself, Arthur honestly didn't know.

 

 ///

 

Their own story had begun in such an indistinct manner that neither of them could really pinpoint a date, not even a year. There had been a first time they had had sex, of course, but having sex with someone didn't start a story. In their case, their story started in the middle, without a fancy meeting, or a long courting, or paths miraculously crossed by destiny; only long hours of work, a great deal of banter, and that kind of relaxed interaction that came easily to Eames but not to Arthur. Only later Arthur had learned that it didn't really come easily to Eames, either, he just liked to arrange things to look like it did. Because Eames was always ready to bolt regardless of the artless sprawl he chose to display.

But the truth was that there was something to be said about them, there was something to be said about the complex-free sex and the morning-afters full of laughter and uncompromising anecdotes. About the tables overflowing with files and wrappers of fast food. About texting from opposite corners of the world with short snarky remarks about other teams and other countries and other people, all the 'them' outside of their 'us'.

So theirs had been a story without a start, without momentous events or heady pinnacles. Without a plot. But with an end. A bit anticlimactic and nearly as indistinct as their beginning, but an end nonetheless. Arthur made sure of that.

 

 ///

 

In truth, it had all come down to the fucking butterflies.

 

 ///

 

Arthur was a man with a plan. Dom would say that this was not a current but a permanent state, something that defined Arthur as a whole much more than it defined a moment in his life. But Dom didn't say anything because Arthur didn't talk about these things with him, so Dom didn't know what kind of plan Arthur had this time.

He was good at getting what he wanted. He was focused and relentless and clever and methodical. His plan would succeed.

The problem was, as always, the time. His line of work didn't leave him much free time in the same place, and for the kind of scheme he had, he needed a bit of stability.

Arthur decided to spend less time reading and more time out. Looking. Searching. Polishing his plan.

 

 ///

 

According to Eames, Arthur's main flaw was his desperate need to be perfect. Eames was of the opinion that people in dreamsharing often forgot that paradoxes weren't only fancy staircases and looped corridors.

According to Eames, it was a mistake to try and be perfect because people weren't meant to be perfect. The world wasn't meant to be perfect. Things weren't meant to be perfect.

According to Eames, every child's favorite tin soldier was the defective one. Because that was what made it special. Arthur couldn't wrap his mind around that concept, but that was okay because, well, that made him the defective tin soldier in Eames' box.

According to Eames, it sucked to lose one's favorite tin soldier.

 

 ///

 

Amanda was beautiful, Arthur thought over his glass of wine. She had a really wondrous smile and the kind of bright eyes that reflected the subdued lights of the restaurant in the most perfect way. It said as much about Amanda's face as it did about the quality of the restaurant's lighting scheme.

“You're beautiful,” he said to her, smiling, confident, putting down his glass to observe her better.

Her laugh was very pleasant and her blush endearing, the tips of her hair dancing as she shook her head as if bashful to accept the compliment.

Arthur kept on gazing at her. She was truly wonderful. He liked her a lot.

Amanda delicately put her hand on his and looked at him under her lashes.

“Thank you,” she said.

Arthur took her hand, squeezing it gently, caressing her soft skin. She was exquisite.

 

 ///

 

He didn't usually need closure to move on. Eames had lived fast and left a lot of things half-done. Seeing how it had turned out, with him being more or less rich and master of his own dreams-- as well as a generous portion of other people's-- he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

So he couldn't be too sure why the hell every time he decided to have a wank he ended up thinking of Arthur. Okay, yes, he had been a splendid fuck, but Eames didn't really rank him number one in his “best lays I've had” list, much less in his masturbatory fodder.

Eames hadn't had closure with his family. He hadn't had closure with the guy who taught him everything when he lived in the streets of London. He hadn't had closure with the man who had introduced him to dreamsharing. He hadn't had closure with a million and a half sex-partners before. He just didn't need it. He could move on without knowing why he had to. He could move on from Arthur. Having to work with him again was no problem because Eames didn't need closure.

 

 ///

 

“So, what do you do for a living, Arthur?”

He had met Linda through a dating website. Even if socially scorned, this kind of service provided the kind of information Arthur definitely appreciated having beforehand. It made compatibility easier.

“I'm some kind of travel agent,” Arthur lied through his teeth. Only, not really, because as Eames always said, truth was just a matter of perception. “My clients tell me their ideas, and I provide the travel of their dreams.”

“Oh, that's fascinating!”

That reply would have been actually accurate had he been more precise with the nature of his job, but Arthur wasn't sure he wouldn't have received the same answer if he had said he was an accountant, a non-descript administrative or a street sweeper.

“Isn't it?” he said, his smile stilted and his tone bland.

Maybe dating websites weren't such a good idea after all.

 

 ///

 

One hand wrapped around his cock, other hand playing with his balls, Eames idly thought that having back his ability to jerk off to other people would be nice. It was worse when he did it without watching porn, just his fantasies to spur his desire, because that lead invariably much faster to Arthur, and Eames was starting to feel fed up with all this nonsense. It was like treating yourself to the most awesome steak to suddenly realize that what you were really craving was a lousy salad. The steak was a hundred, a thousand times better, smelled delicious, looked delicious, tasted delicious, but the thing was that you wanted a fucking salad and that's what your brain was trying to tell you.

Bloody vegetarians, Eames thought uncharitably-- and hypocritically, seeing as he still longed for the damned green thing.

He wasn't going to ask why the salad was not on the menu, though. He didn't need closure.

 

 ///

 

Eames could work as extractor, but he made more money as a forger. Not every job required a doppelgänger, though. But every job required a thief.

Conning people in their dreams wasn't so different from conning people in the street.

“Because you wouldn't want anyone to know that, would you?” he drawled, delighted at the mark's startled reaction. Bringing up dark secrets in a dream was like conjuring them, like making them present somewhere, like a magical summoning. Now he only had to guess where the mark's subconscious would have hid them. Or better yet, force him to hide them where Eames wanted. Conjuring them up a bit closer.

Eames eyes traveled the room and did a double take when he spotted the mini-bar. He then fixed his eyes on the mark and smirked as if he knew something the mark didn't. The mark's brow was drenched in sweat and he started to shiver when Eames got up and walked towards the mini-bar.

Elephants. It was just too easy to make people think of them.

“No, wait!” the mark shouted, lunging at him just when Rickman and Baum entered the room.

Eames loved his job.

 

 ///

 

Arthur had his hopes high with Jenny. They had been going out for three months, now. The expensive bouquet of roses was a silent (or a screaming, because it was huge and attracted the attention of practically everybody in a ten miles radius) testimony of that.

When Mal had gotten pregnant again, Arthur had decided to take some time off himself. Not that he hadn't worked without the Cobbs before; he had and he would again, but he trusted Dom and Mal and enjoyed dreaming with them. A nice working environment did wonders for not only the quality of the job, but also Arthur's personal happiness. Because putting up with assholes always put him in a horrid mood.

And so, he had had the time and opportunity to rekindle the old flame that was Jenny. And what a flame that was. Jennifer Daniels was an exceptional woman. Pretty, intelligent, funny, great in bed... Arthur's memory of her was nothing compared to the reality of her now. Arthur thought that he might be in love.

More than a gasp, it was a long, excited inhalation of air that Jenny did when she saw him.

“Oh my God!” she shrieked before bursting out laughing and running to hug him, roses carelessly crushed between them.

Yeah, Arthur thought, she might be it.

 ///

 

It was around that time that Maurice Fischer's health began to decline. But no one in the dreamsharing business knew or gave a damn about it. Not yet.

 

 ///

 

“Call me?” Paul suggested, voice lazy with sleep.

Eames finished pushing the tails of his shirt inside the waistband of his pants and offered him a smile.

“Sure,” he lied as he leaned down to kiss him deeply, with tongue.

Paul-- Eames was reasonably sure that was his name, he was ace at remembering that sort of thing-- moaned in appreciation and kissed back, but didn't try to catch Eames' mouth again when he pulled apart.

Eames nodded his goodbye and walked out. Once he had closed the door behind him, he didn't bother keeping his smile in place.

 

 ///

 

The worst of it, Arthur reflected, wasn't being stuck with baby-sitting duty. Although, admittedly, that was bad enough. The three of them had fretted a little at the arrangement. Mal because she thought James was too small yet and needed her, Dom because he found Mal's distress contagious and Arthur because he thought he sucked at children, even if Philippa tended to wordlessly disagree. In spite of it, Arthur had volunteered (sort of) because Mal's parents were in Europe and he knew that their anniversary was important to them.

The worst of it, Arthur reflected, was having the time to think. Because he hadn't had the foresight to bring his current read and he knew the Cobbs' books by heart at that point, and it was in moments like these that the memory of Eames would come to mind, unbidden, unwelcome and illogical. Because he knew he had made the right decision, that Eames was not what he was searching for, would never be. And that was okay, really, because that's why Arthur had come up with his plan. But it still puzzled him how come it wasn't Jenny, or Amanda or-- God forbid-- Linda he thought of when, against all statistics, his plan didn't work out and he found himself alone, out of books and off the job.

The worst of it, Arthur reflected, was how horribly he felt thinking about his own sexuality while holding a baby. Because he was starting to suspect that maybe he wasn't as bisexual as he had thought. Maybe he had difficulties establishing emotional links with women or something. It was the only plausible explanation for his lack of success, even if his body had never given him an indication that hinted at it. In any case, he was a rational man; he would use his intellect and modify his scheme so that it contemplated the masculine gender. Arthur could adapt. Arthur still had a plan.

 

 ///

 

It had been a while since the last time he had had to forge and, goddammit, he had nearly forgotten how fun it was. How thrilling to rise up to the challenge, to focus on what he knew no other could pull off as well as he did. And that meant the whole of it. The research, the infiltration, the observation, the rehearsing, the character analysis, the modeling of the shape, accent, mannerisms... he liked the planning stages of extraction, but there was nothing quite like forging. Nothing like being someone else. Nothing like finding the delicate equilibrium between what you had to hold on to and what you had to let go of so that the mark's subconscious filled it in for you. That's where most forgers fucked up, they tried to control the dream, control the forge so much that they forced-fed the mark their own vision of the character. No, the vision had to be the mark's.

However, if Eames was good at anything, it was walking the line, finding the balance. Well, not really. He was good at a lot of things. But playing with fire without getting burned was definitely one of them.

He shook his head and let out a delighted laugh when the silky ends of his pigtails brushed his cheeks. His voice was very high-pitched now, his laughter giggly and tinted with the most heartbreaking innocence. Eames was eight and he was having a blast. He started skipping towards the mark.

Eames fucking loved his job.

 

 ///

 

Arthur was a decent architect. He was an acceptable extractor. But the position he really enjoyed taking was point. And not only because he was exceptional at it (he was), but because it really suited his tastes better. The point man always went under, never stayed topside watching the clock count slowly down. He did his own research and didn't depend on others' ability to follow the right leads and dig the right dirt. He didn't have to bullshit the mark, only take care of the problems, keep his eyes open, know when they could push and when they had to run. He got shit done. But the best, the fucking best, was keeping his team alive when the mark's subconscious caught up with what was happening.

“Coburn! Take Yoshinaga upstairs and try to finish the job!” He shouted to be heard over the gunshots.

He rolled from his cover and knelt up in the middle of the corridor, shooting as many projections down as he could. Getting rid of them wasn't the issue; there were too many. But if there was something that the human subconscious held as a priority was not dying and avoiding pain, so Coburn and Yoshinaga's escape was effectively covered as the magazine steadily, and as slowly as Arthur dared, got emptied.

When he ran out of bullets, he dove for cover again and replaced the mag. He was vaguely aware that he was smiling.

Shit, he fucking loved his job.

 

 ///

 

Eames thought that, after all this time, he had most obviously moved on.

Arthur thought that, after all this time, he had most obviously moved on.

Both of them thought that, after all this time, the other had most obviously moved on.

 

 ///

 

It was a big job. Big enough to afford them both. And that was, indeed, more tempting than the actual paycheck: the dare, the challenge, the knowledge that they were doing something important, something difficult, something that wouldn't be easy and exactly because of that, it would be fun.

“If I may have a word, Mr. Eames,” Arthur had said after the morning meeting.

Actually, when they found themselves desperately kissing in the dingiest, most sadly stereotypical broom closet in the world-- naked bulb light of low potency included-- they still believed that they had moved on, that this wouldn't affect their professional performance, not even their personal interaction, that this was just sex.

And that's how hands didn't roam as much as frantically groped, how mouths kissed, and nipped, and panted and bit and kissed again, and how Eames' usually dexterous fingers opened Arthur's pants and fumbled with the fabric until he realized that Arthur was wearing suspenders and that was the reason why the fucking garment wouldn't go down. When the damned things resisted his attempts at removing them (what were those, stapled?) and he started cursing under his breath about it, Arthur first snorted, then tried to hold it in and finally started to laugh. He had forgotten how easy sex was between them. How fun.

“Fucking chastity braces...”

That made Arthur laugh even harder until he felt Eames give up and slide down to his knees. His laughter died slowly because Eames on his knees with his mouth so close to Arthur's groin was a sobering sight and deserved some breathless respect, but also because he knew that Eames didn't care about getting dirt on the knees of his pants, he didn't even care about potential stains of semen, the mess of impromptu sex in a seedy broom closet at their workplace. He didn't give a damn, but Arthur did. He did and Eames knew. And that's why he was the one on his knees, and not Arthur. Eames also knew that he didn't need to crack the combination of his chastity braces because, seeing him on his knees, it wouldn't take Arthur five seconds to ditch them himself. He slid the elastic bands down his arms through the holes of his vest in less than three.

Eames was unholy good at giving head. Or maybe it had been too long since Arthur last got a blowjob. Yeah, maybe it was that, he thought as he traced Eames' lips where they were tightly wrapped around his cock. Eames was the kind of shameless person who stared at you fixedly while he blew you, knowing perfectly well what it was doing to you, but drinking in the reactions anyway, as hungry for the visuals of a man's undoing as he was for his cock. He was the kind of shameless person who looked good on his knees.

“Oh, fuck...” Arthur breathed with a voice that didn't sound like his at all, “your mouth...”

Eames grinned-- or that's what his eyes told Arthur, mouth occupied otherwise on a steady rhythm-- because, well, yes, that was the idea, wasn't it? Arthur actually chuckled at that but just then Eames did that number with his tongue on Arthur's frenum and the only thing Arthur could do was groan, and buck, and force his cock deeper into Eames mouth, once, twice, again and again and again, knowing he could take it, those eyes fixed on Arthur even as Eames held his hips still and gulped him down and it was just too much, Eames deepthroating him was too much, the sensation as he swallowed around his cock was too much, and with a muted, unspecific, desperate sound, Arthur came, and came and came and it lasted forever, even if a handful of seconds later he was coming down from it but still, woah, that had been...

He felt Eames releasing his cock (when had Arthur closed his eyes?) and tugging at his hand, silently asking for a bit of help in getting up gracefully. Arthur pulled him up, and close, and they kissed again. Arthur didn't really like the taste of come, his or anyone else's, but he wasn't squicked by it either, so he had no problem showing his appreciation after a good blowjob.

When he reached down, he found Eames' pants already undone. His cock felt hard and heavy, familiar even after all the time that had passed since the last time he had had it in his hand. He kept Eames close as he jerked him off. Arthur could feel his breath as Eames panted against his mouth, not really kissing anymore, just there, lips brushing nearly accidentally from time to time.

Arthur could tell, but Eames gave him a warning anyway when he started to get close. He was always quiet when he came, all shuddering breath but no sound. He was quiet this time, too.

They stood like that for a while, just breathing next to each other, careful not to let the come caught in their hands get anywhere near their clothes.

They cleaned up with one of the musty rolls of tissue paper stored in the closet and Eames smiled knowing that the bathroom would be their first stop after this anyway.

“Hey,” Eames said when they were mostly ready to go, “fancy a drink after work tonight?”

“No.”

Eames paused at the unexpected force and swiftness of the reply. He hadn't even been looking at Arthur when he had asked, not giving the offer importance because it had none. But Arthur had just given it some, because you didn't snap with a curt, nearly aggressive 'no' to something like 'is it going to rain tomorrow?'

“I think we should talk...” Eames started.

Arthur reached calmly for the door.

“There's nothing to talk ab--”

Eames pushed the door closed again from behind him, because he hadn't known before, but now it was evident that there _was_ something to talk about, goddammit, and he would be damned if...

His thoughts were cut by a sharp elbow in his stomach and a blow with the forearm that sent him one step back.

The sound of the door opening should have managed to mask Eames' words, but for some reason didn't.

“Don't come to me again,” he said with the low, flat tone that meant death.

There was the tiniest pause in Arthur's exit. His own words came through undisturbed, even if he hadn't looked back when he had uttered them, before closing the door behind him:

“I won't.”

 

 ///

 

Arthur, Eames thought, was a first-class bastard. Which was fitting, since he was generally a first-class everything. For example, he was also a first-class prick. And Eames was all for casual, no-strings-attached, I-don't-need-to-be-chatted-up-let's-just-get-to-it sex but if Arthur was going to be a bitch about it he could start propositioning the stick up his ass for all that Eames cared.

He didn't need closure, but he had received it anyway.

 

 ///

 

After a while, Eames surprised himself thinking of Arthur again without feeling the uncontrollable urge to punch him in the face.

He hadn't been doing anything special, just watching TV. Just a regular, stupid, American sitcom; nothing to do at all with the memory of Arthur on his knees, blowing him with efficiency, that had suddenly sprung to mind.

It had been a really silly day. Eames had those often, if he felt comfortable enough. In that particular occasion he had proceeded to grab Arthur's ears, one in each hand, and twist the wrists as if revving a bike. He had even made the rumbling sounds accordingly. The deadpan expression Arthur had cast at him had said 'I'm going to kill you' so loud and clear that Eames hadn't been able to avoid bursting out laughing, because, really, Arthur should have seen his face. And he laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and couldn't stop so Arthur had given up on him and said something that Eames couldn't remember exactly, but it had probably involved Eames' ancestors and what Arthur thought they had done with the farm animals in their free time. And the thing was that Eames hadn't come that day but he hadn't given a damn because, hell, it had been so worth it...

It was that actor, Eames thought, eyes on the TV screen again. His ears stuck out a little bit. That had been it.

 

 ///

 

Arthur couldn't bring himself to think that Michael had been a bad idea. He hadn't been, he was lovely. They still hadn't lasted a week, though. It was probably too soon after his tryst with Eames, too difficult not to compare them. Which was totally unfair to Michael who, lovely or not, wasn't Eames. And that should be more or less the point, that he wasn't Eames, because Arthur and Eames weren't compatible the way Arthur needed them to be, there was no future for them, just a chunk of present a bit longer than expected. So it was more than okay, it was fucking _ideal_ that Michael wasn't Eames. Except that it wasn't.

Arthur would let some time pass, and then keep on trying.

 

 ///

 

For the first time in ages, Dom thought of their sleeping bodies topside. The sea down here sounded like the lullaby they weren't hearing up there. And, conversely, it was whispering him to wake up.

They had thought it was a good idea. It had been a good idea. But, like all of those, there was a point when it had been already carried out and it was time to move on to the next good idea.

They had explored the deepest recesses of their combined subconscious. It felt like really melting and becoming the proverbial one. He had always thought they were meant to be. Like two halves of a whole, like all the possible corny lines in the world, only them being the truth and not only corny lines anymore. And still, Dom kept on being him and Mal kept on being her. It was like eternal life, like being granted infinite time and the power to build a better, more perfect world, custom made for them because it was they who had made it. He had thought that one life with Mal wasn't enough, that he wanted more...

But now, what he really wanted was for it to be real and not a dream. Dom wanted to wake up.

But Mal didn't.

 

 ///

 

The first time Eames' team attempted inception, it had been a problem of approach. Or rather, misconception of the nature of ideas. Because extracting was all about evoking thoughts and then taking a look at them, but that didn't work reversely, you couldn't come up with a safe, tell the mark that his most important opinions were there and then put a manila folder with the wanted thoughts in it.

The human mind didn't work that way and, if Eames had really stopped to think about it, he would have discarded the idea as ludicrous in half a second.

But he had been hired to forge, not to think, as the extractor had not-that-politely reminded him the very first day of work, so he didn't fight his case. He wouldn't stop giving the idea some thought, because that's how Eames' head worked, but he didn't need to voice his conclusions.

He would be paid whether they succeeded or not, anyway.

 

 ///

 

The second time Eames took part in an incepting attempt, everything ran much more smoothly. Eames had been able to taste the success with the tip of his tongue. They had actually tried that thing Cobb pulled off sometimes, introducing a new level by putting the team under again while being still in the dream. But the incepted idea hadn't been simple enough, too difficult to translate emotionally into a concept the mark could feel connected to.

Eames was sure that the key to inception was conning the mark into thinking that he had been the one coming up with the idea in the first place. Like the most classic Fiddle Game. If you find out what moves a man, he's yours.

“It's been interesting to work with you, Eames” had said the extractor afterwards, when they were parting ways.

“My pleasure,” he answered, sincerely enough for once, as he shook her hand. “You sure you don't need a hand?”

He still thought it was bad manners to leave the clean up to the point man and the extractor, even if that's how they had planned it out from the start.

“We got it covered,” she said, self-confident without sounding arrogant.

It was nice when a job ended so calmly, without having to run for it, even in failure. Eames nodded his goodbyes and walked away.

 

 ///

 

“You seem to be distracted today,” Austin said.

Arthur didn't quite startle, but he did return to the present moment. It was a very nice moment, too, both of them in a loose embrace, standing against the wall of the room.

For one fleeting moment, Arthur debated if he should talk to Austin about Mal.

After much thinking, Arthur had come to the conclusion that he needed to try it with someone who was into dreamsharing, because couples were supposed to trust each other and it was straining and generally inconvenient to have to lie about how boring the business trip to Billings, MT had been or what those suspicious tracks on his inner forearm were.

And yet, it was not Austin's business if Mal was acting strange lately, in fact since she had woken up from her trip down with Dom. It was not Austin's business that they had gone so down, so deep, that they had reached a part of the subconscious where time virtually stopped. So, even if Arthur was worried, and Dom was... there had to be a stronger word to describe how much Dom fretted and tried to hide it... even if that was the case, Arthur rarely ever felt the need to confide in anyone. He wasn't going to make an exception now, and least of all with an extractor.

“Jet lag,” Arthur explained with a husky voice, pressing against Austin as the extractor's hands felt him up.

“You unarmed?” Austin mocked him. “Rumor has it that you never go around without at least a dozen weapons on your body.”

“I seldom carry topside. It ruins the line of a perfect suit.”

Austin didn't snort. He didn't even smile. Arthur refrained the impulse to sigh. The problem with people in dreamsharing was that they didn't expect Arthur to have a sense of humor, so they always took his comments at face value. Arthur didn't want to think what concept they had of him if everything he tried to say in joke ended up being the official truth in the eyes of the community.

There wasn't much point in dwelling on it, so Arthur leaned into Austin and kissed him.

 

 ///

 

Mal died.

A big portion of Dom died with her.

Arthur did his best to keep the rest of Dom alive.

 

 ///

 

Mal's death changed a lot of things. Them, for example. Dom was still the best, but where once his motivations had been varied and colorful and positive, now it was only desperation that fueled him. He wanted to come back to his children but knew he couldn't. He was trying to buy time, literally buy time, with money, and Arthur didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't going to work, that clocks just didn't work that way. Dom thought he was going to come up with the solution one of these days. Arthur was there for the jobs, always, no matter how crazy they were, how risky to take certain clients, how immoral the use of the information they extracted for them. He wasn't there for their slow times, forcing the separation because he was afraid of what folly could get into Dom's head if he was left alone, but he was even more afraid of being infected by his devastating grief, all the more obvious because Dom tried to hide it and pretend he was fine.

Mal's death changed a lot of things. She had been a stunning woman. Arthur had known that she wasn't quite the same when she had woken up, but hadn't expected suicide. Mal had loved life. Mal had loved her children. Mal had loved Dom. It made no sense that she set him up, but it made even less sense that Dom could have pushed her out that window. Arthur had had to know, though, so he had asked, back when they had started running. It had been quite the row and Arthur had been tempted to punch Dom, not because he wanted, but because he thought that maybe Dom needed to punch back and Arthur didn't really mind the pain if there was a good reason to stand it.

Mal's death changed a lot of things. Arthur didn't regard dreamsharing the same, now. It had never been a game for him, but when you got used to firing a gun for kicks, you tended to forget it actually could kill people. Not that you didn't know, you just forgot. Arthur wouldn't forget again. He would keep his totem at hand and limbo away.

Mal's death changed a lot of things, but not Arthur's plan. If anything, it reaffirmed it. But it also postponed it, because now he had to focus on Dom, and on the jobs, and in just a couple of months he would have to focus on Mal's shade, too. Not that the three weren't the same thing.

 

 ///

 

Mombasa was close to the equator, but the climate was rather tropical instead of equatorial. Maybe it was its closeness to the sea. Maybe it was the winds. Eames didn't particularly care.

“You got something for a headache?” He asked to the Indian-looking guy at the bar as he took a seat beside him. It was the kind of old, dirty establishment that Eames actually missed when he was doing corporate work. People seemed more alive here, more ready to enjoy a drink, no matter how cheap. Even sad drunkards looked less lonely in a place like this. “It's been an awful flight, you see, and I've been told you run a very nice pharmacy here.”

The man looked at him with a pleasant smile on his lips. Eames had tried to pull off that kind of friendly smile many, many times, but it didn't work that well on his face.

“I've got aspirins if you want,” the man answered, not disturbed in the least to be asked in a bar and not at his workplace. “For anything stronger than that, I'll need to see a doctor's prescription, I'm afraid.”

“Sure.”

Eames produced a folded paper from his breast pocket and slid it on the bar's rough surface towards him as the man took a swing at his soda.

“If you'll excuse me,” the man said.

Eames gestured agreeably and ordered a beer as the other man made his call. He usually kept his gambles apart from his work, because money was easy to replace when you lost it, but other things were not. He was quite sure of his chances in this one, though. The handwriting had been perfect, he knew, and that was in fact the best cover letter for a man of his skills, especially since he already had a reputation and, without a doubt, the man's contact would tell him through the phone that he hadn't actually written the note but had heard of Eames anyway and he was to be trusted.

He took a sip from the bottle and waited, letting the man observe him without looking back at him. If his eyes wandered through the room it was more out of habit than paranoia, although he had always thought that a healthy dose of paranoia was a perfectly good thing.

When the man came back, he did it offering that friendly grin of his again.

“You seem to be a very interesting man, Mr. Eames. Care to take this conversation to my humble home?”

Eames' grin wasn't open enough to look as honest and friendly as Yusuf's, but it sufficed.

 

 ///

 

Mombasa was close to the equator, but the climate was rather tropical instead of equatorial. Maybe it was its closeness to the sea. Maybe it was the winds. Cobb didn't particularly care.

“Arthur,” Eames had said with a chuckle, “you're still working with that stick-in-the-mud?”

Cobb was aware that Arthur and Eames had some kind of history and weren't exactly eager to work with one another; they hadn't for the longest time, maybe more than two years. Arthur had never told him what had happened and Cobb had never asked, because that was not the kind of thing they talked about, not even when Mal had been alive and conversation was easy and full of laughter.

“He's good at what he does, right?”

Because it was the truth, and he needed them both. Cobb was sure that both men would leave differences aside and put the job first. Cobb was also sure that Eames wouldn't let the chance to perform inception pass, he had heard rumors. They were all junkies, the lot of them. They always wanted more.

“Oh, he's the best, but he has no imagination.”

“Not like you,” Cobb compromised.

“Listen, if you're gonna perform inception you need imagination.”

Eames spoke as if he knew what he was talking about. Maybe those rumors were right. Eames was difficult to read and he had been in Mombasa for a very long time with no indication that he wanted to leave any time soon, but Cobb's guts told him that he had him, that Eames would accept and fly back to Paris with him, that he was in the way to assembling the perfect team, that he would go back to his children.

“Let me ask you something,” he said, trying to tone down his enthusiasm, “Have you done it before?”

 

 ///

 

Arthur toyed with the idea of trying it with Ariadne. She was an amazing girl, with a deep insight and a sharp mind and a level head and the sweetest innocence. And she was pretty.

That was what occupied his thoughts when he entered the warehouse at night to retrieve the Moleskine he had left in the drawer of his desk. He always hated the moment in between notebooks, that time when you had to replace the one you had already completed. It was easy to need precisely the info noted on the former notebook, the one you hadn't brought with you that day.

He paused when he saw that Eames and Ariadne were talking, alone under the fluorescent light. That was pretty rare, of all of them Eames and Ariadne were the ones who interacted the least. Ariadne had looked worried lately, but Arthur had expected that if she needed to confide in someone, that would be him.

“Things only get to you if you let them, Ariadne,” Eames' voice said.

He had sounded as light and humorous as ever, but for some reason Arthur thought that this sentence had been some kind of elemental truth that would have deserved the utmost solemnity. Which actually supported the idea that it was precisely lightly and with humor that Eames would speak it aloud. Because, Arthur realized, it sort of revealed the very essence of Eames, the key to understanding everything about him. And, to be honest, Arthur wasn't interested in understanding, not now and probably not ever.

So, disregarding the fact that the others had probably heard him already, he turned back and went home. The Moleskine would be there tomorrow.

 

 ///

 

Ariadne was sort of saturated. Cobb was a menace, but precisely for that reason she had to stay. The others had no idea what they were getting into. She probably had no idea what she was getting into, either, but putting together everybody's pieces of the knowledge maybe they'll have a chance.

Ariadne was sort of saturated. She had a life, a good life. She knew for a fact (because Cobb had said so, at least he had been honest with her about it) that this wasn't legal. There were gradations in everything, of course. This was still less illegal than, say, assassination or terrorism but more illegal than smoking pot. She was probably making some poor decisions here, but couldn't help herself.

Ariadne was sort of saturated. Everybody in the team was amazing and treated her like one of them. With respect, but easy familiarity. Without condescension. Well, Arthur sometimes couldn't help it, but that was just how he was. He was condescending with _Eames_ , for God's sake. It was actually funny to see them together, they were like two worlds about to collide but which actually avoided the impact at the last moment and settled for dancing around each other for a while, until they got separated again just to be able to gather some momentum for the next time. It was fascinating, really.

Ariadne was sort of saturated. This was too new, too big, too scary, too impossible. And she was damn good at it. She was still trying to elucidate if that was a good or a bad thing.

Ariadne was sort of saturated, but she had never felt so alive.

 

 ///

 

The first gunshot was unexpected, but Arthur was quick to react.

“Cover him!” he shouted.

“Down! Down now!” Eames barked as he pushed Fischer's head down and took out his weapon.

“What the hell is going on?”

The projections had blocked their way out. In a fraction of a second, Arthur discarded leaving the car. They were surrounded and they would be shot down easily without the cover and the speed. That left only one option.

Arthur pressed the gas pedal and charged against the car in front of him. The impact shook them all, but he could still hear the gunshots, fucking feel them as they hit the car. The window exploded at his left. He ducked for a moment, then put reverse and accelerated, ignoring everything that wasn't getting out of there alive.

_Submachine guns, what the fucking fuck...!_ a part of his brain absently thought under the clangs, bangs and crashes.

He charged forwards again, took out his gun, shot twice, grabbed the wheel again and charged backwards. The noise was deafening, confusing his senses, only the adrenaline keeping him focused.

He was dimly aware of a red Honda trying to clear the way, but the guy at their rear was a fucking priority, so he tried to run him over. The damned bastard, son of a bitch, refused to die; Arthur pressed the pedal all the way down, the guy raised his weapon...

“Get him!” he shouted at Eames.

He saw the blur that was Eames sit up, kill the bastard and go down again.

When Arthur stepped on the brakes, he saw that they had opened a way in the back. He made a sudden U-turn, tires screeching angrily, and flew out of there.

“You all right?” he asked, voice too loud now that the shooting was over and the road was clear. Fuck, now he had to come down, he could already feel how his hands started to shake from the backlash of the adrenaline hit.

“Yeah, I... I'm okay, I'm okay,” Eames replied with his usual composure barely rattled. The man could be dying and still sound like he found his death an amusing turn of events, “Fischer is okay, unless he gets carsick.”

Very funny, Arthur thought as he navigated Ariadne's maze in search of the warehouse. And still, still, he couldn't help the exhilaration, the triumph at having escaped alive once more, the way he had pulled it off, they had pulled it off, because fuck yeah, he and Eames were goddamned good working together, they were _golden_ , and no matter how shitty the hole they fell down was, they would get out alive and kicking ass because that was what they did and they did it fucking, fucking well.

Okay, maybe that had been less than generous towards their tourist. He had done admirably well, too, for being a newbie. It was only then that Arthur looked at the passenger's seat.

“Saito?”

 

 ///

 

The first gunshot startled Eames and shut him up, but didn't disorient him. He didn't have the time to ponder what it said about his life that he was too familiar with the sound by now.

“Cover him!” Arthur shouted.

“Down! Down now!” Eames barked as he pushed Fischer's head down and took out his weapon.

“What the hell is going on?”

The projections had blocked their way out. In a fraction of a second, Eames discarded leaving the car. They were surrounded and they would be shot down easily without the cover and the speed. That left only one option.

As expected, Arthur came to the same conclusion. He pressed the gas pedal and charged against the car in front of him. The impact shook them all, but Eames had predicted what Arthur would try to do and expected the blow. He could still hear the gunshots, fucking feel them as they hit the car. The rear window exploded behind him. He turned and stretched his legs, searching blindly for leverage to prop himself up, then he started to shoot, adapting to Arthur's crazy maneuvers, anticipating the swings and the blows not to waste bullets, drop his gun or hit his head.

_Submachine guns, what the fucking fuck...!_ a part of his brain absently thought under the clangs, bangs and crashes.

He ducked, made sure Fischer stayed down and replaced his magazine. The noise was deafening, confusing his senses, only the adrenaline keeping him focused.

He was dimly aware of Arthur's charging in reverse again, this time more viciously, and had the time to glance at his face, fiercely scowling out the rear window.

“Get him!” Arthur shouted at him.

Eames didn't think about it, he directly knew. In a fraction of a second, he sat up, shot twice and went down again.

He felt Arthur step on the brakes. Eames' legs were still locking him in place when the car made a sudden U-turn, tires screeching angrily, then flew out of there.

“You all right?” he heard Arthur asking, voice too loud now that the shooting was over and the road was clear. Fuck, now Eames had to come down, he could already feel how his hands started to shake from the backlash of the adrenaline hit. He didn't drop his gun just yet, though.

“Yeah, I... I'm okay, I'm okay,” Eames replied, trying to sound as light as he could. “Fischer is okay, unless he gets carsick.”

As expected, Arthur didn't react to the joke. It was okay; he was used to Arthur's little idiosyncrasies while on the job. And Arthur was used to his. That's what made them such a great team. Because they were, he thought as Arthur navigated Ariadne's maze in search of the warehouse. He and Arthur were goddamned good working together, they were _golden_ , and no matter how shitty the hole they fell down was, they would get out alive and kicking ass because that was what they did and they did it fucking, fucking well.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by Arthur's voice. This time he wasn't being loud, he actually sounded worried, and that, in turn, worried Eames.

“Saito?”

 

 ///

 

Cobb inhaled deep and uncoiled the IV line from the PASIV. This was being a crazy recollection of close call after close call. He wondered if he still had a conscience or that was one of the parts of him that had died with Mal. Before he sat down to get the line in place, he couldn't help a glance at Ariadne. She was gazing elsewhere, so without thinking, Cobb followed her eyes and ended up looking at Arthur and Eames.

Eames was lying down on the floor as Arthur swiftly stuck the needle in Eames' vein. They were bantering, their interaction easy and relaxed in a way Cobb hadn't seen them display in years. It was over in seconds, Arthur too focused on his job to linger. For a second, Cobb met Ariadne's eyes and there was some sort of understanding in there, some shared thought. The moment was broken and Cobb took his place on the floor, leaning against the bed.

The window was open and the curtains billowed. For a second, Cobb thought of another hotel room, another window, another set of curtains...

“Hey, you ready?”

Cobb shook out of his reverie.

“Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm ready.”

Arthur pressed the button.

 

 ///

 

Arthur was free. Not that he wasn't free before, it had been his decision to accompany Dom, but now... now he had options, he had time. So he went back to his plan.

It had been a misperception what had led him to believe he might be more compatible with just men. It hadn't been a true factor, now that he watched it all in hindsight. And, with the kind of goal he had in mind, maybe sticking to women would prove to be beneficial. A lot of things were easier that way.

So, after the inception job, he had tried asking Ariadne out. Ariadne had looked at him with those pensive eyes of her and, tilting the head a little she had opened her lovely mouth to then close it again without saying anything. He had known then that she would say no. So that was not the unexpected part. It was hardly the first time he was rejected, no problem. But it puzzled him a little the sympathetic look in her eyes when she refused. She had to know she wasn't breaking his heart and he was pretty sure he wasn't breaking hers. It was odd enough to make him think about it for a couple of days. Four days later, though, he had already forgotten.

 

 ///

 

Cobb watched Philippa and James play in the backyard. He couldn't get enough of them, never got tired of watching them now that he was allowed to see their faces every day, to kiss their brows every night. He promised himself he would learn to cook, because now that their grandmother was back to Europe he just couldn't feed them take out every day. He was going to be the best father in the world. He owed it to Mal. To them.

Sometimes he took part in their games. Sometimes he talked to them about their mother. Most of the time he acted as Justice of the Peace between them, because they argued a lot.

Only when he was completely alone would Cobb take out Mal's top and spin it on the table. Because he didn't want their children to ask what it was, where it had come from, what it was for. He didn't want them to touch it. The PASIV device, he had given to Arthur.

Never again, Cobb vowed as he watched Philippa dare James to find an orange daisy in the grass. Never again.

Reality was far better.

 

 ///

 

Ariadne could still sleep without problems and dream without a machine, but she spent a lot of her waking time thinking about lucid dreaming.

It was tempting, very tempting. And very hard to go back to a dull reality when you had been able to touch the sky, to change a man's mind, to give him a new dream. However, fortunately or not, she knew that wasn't the kind of life she wanted for herself.

Things tend to follow always the same pattern, though. Dreamsharing, like microwave ovens, Teflon coating or the Internet, would leak and become legal. It was just a matter of time. And when that happened, she would be there to found a company to teach people how to fly.

 

 ///

 

Arthur liked her the moment he shook her hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

Sam was her professional name, nobody knew for certain if it came from Samantha, Samuels or Seattle Art Museum. Arthur's guess was that it was from none.

“You chose that name,” Arthur affirmed, sure of himself. “You don't like people making assumptions.”

Sam eyed him speculatively.

“That's an assumption. Are you trying to provoke me, then?”

Arthur smiled. He knew people liked his smile. He had dimples.

“What if I am?”

“I would say it's not wise to anger the one who designs the loops, shortcuts and paradoxes for you,” she said, calmly, assessing. “But if you don't think it highly unprofessional, I could wear pigtails tomorrow, if you're so set on pulling them.”

“I happen to think it's highly unprofessional,” Arthur assured her because, well, it was, “but please, wear them anyway.”

 

 ///

 

Eames was definitely over Arthur now, so the next time he called with a job, Eames accepted.

 

 ///

 

“Oh, I just like amoebas,” Eames said with an open, friendly expression.

Sherman was arrogant. That was probably what had rubbed Eames the wrong way. Some people thought that having a college degree made them smarter than people who didn't. It could have been the snide comment about the shirt, though.

“Those aren't amoebas,” Sherman explained, “it's called 'paisley' and it's actually an originally Persian pattern based on natural mot--”

“He knows,” Arthur murmured without taking the eyes from the computer.

Sherman paused for a moment, confused.

“No, he doesn't. He called them...”

His words trailed out when he saw that Arthur had stopped typing and was now looking at him with a smirk so condescending that bordered on straight-out compassionate. Without saying anything, Arthur went back to his work a second later.

When Sherman turned to Eames again, the forger was wearing the kind of dull, empty expression that most cows would kill to have.

Sherman huffed and went out for a smoke break.

 

 ///

 

It was the first time in ages that Eames arrived to the airport without the slightest idea where to go next. He looked at the panels expectantly, waiting for a sudden epiphany or something.

He was free. And rich, filthy rich. He could go anywhere. No hits on his head, no ties, no jobs lined up, no favors to return, no kidnapped relatives in need of a rescue, no nothing... just a whole world of potentiality.

He could do whatever he wanted.

To be honest, he had expected to feel happier about it.

 

 ///

 

Sam loved reading, too, so when he invited her to a homemade dinner at his place-- the one in New York-- she made a beeline towards the shelves nearly before taking off her coat.

“I hadn't pegged you as the kind to enjoy Victoria Holt, really.”

Arthur shrugged, even if the gesture was lost to Sam's back.

“Or Einstein,” she added. “You look more like the 'absolute' kind, if I'm to be honest.”

“I'm into dreamsharing,” he answered calmly, hands in his pockets. “Nothing is more relative than time.”

“Einstein talked about the physical world, not the dreams.”

“Einstein talked about a lot of things.”

Because he did talk about dreams. And about imagination. And about love. But somehow, people tended to think that only what he said about the space-time continuum was important.

Arthur didn't say that part aloud, though. He felt comfortable around Sam, but he was still wary of some things, even after months of dating, even after having checked out her background twice. Arthur was fast about a lot of things, but opening up to people wasn't one of them. Sam didn't seem to mind, though. She took things in stride. That was one of the things Arthur liked about her.

Trying to cook something between the two of them with their limited skills proved to be really fun, even if they weren't able to eat it afterwards.

 

 ///

 

Eames loved seedy gambling dens, but there was something endearing about pretentious casinos, too. Because, under that sheen of high-class shine, they were invariably tacky, and artificial, and transparent in their purpose, nearly as much as the people who frequented them.

He had noticed the boy before he had approached Eames. Not so young, Eames corrected himself, now that he was up close. Eames wondered if he worked for the house or was just freelancing.

“Want me to blow... your dice?” he whispered in Eames' ear.

Eames couldn't help laughing at that.

“You really have to work on your pick-up lines, sweetheart,” he advised in good humor.

The boy-- young man-- didn't seem deterred in the least.

“It made you laugh, didn't it?”

Eames liked his cheekiness. He was rarely approached by men in this kind of establishments. The social pressure was too strong and he was pretty sure he hadn't been advertising his interests tonight. This hooker was risking a lot if this was a spontaneous encounter. If it wasn't, it was Eames the one about to take a risk. He was sort of curious, he admitted.

“Whom are you working for?”

The young man directed his gaze at the craps table they were leaning to before answering with enough faith to move a mountain or two:

“You.”

Eames pondered for a short while and came to his conclusion.

“Alright,” he said with a devil-may-care attitude, leading the way. The man followed.

Much later, Eames took his time when he kissed him goodbye. It was nearly regretfully that he went out of the room. Alive, to his utmost joy.

Eames liked dealing with professionals in any field. He always knew where he stood with them.

 

 ///

 

Eventually, Arthur ended up teaming up with Sam and rarely taking jobs separately.

Eventually, they needed a forger.

Eventually, Arthur called Eames.

Their extractor was an old face in the business, too, an Asian man in his forties that went by the name of Gaby because, as it often happened with Chinese people, the way western mouths butchered his given name made him cringe.

Gaby had never heard so many 'please's, 'if you will's and 'thank you's in his whole professional life, which had been long and profitable thus far. And it weirded him out a little that the general atmosphere was so agreeable and polite, because he was aware that Arthur and Sam were an item but they didn't exchange a single joke while on the job, and he knew for a fact that Eames and Arthur usually bickered like the fate of the world depended on where they would order lunch that day, but for this job they didn't even bounce ideas right and left with him during their planning sessions as much as offered a couple of measured suggestions here and there. Gaby knew their different styles and how adamant they normally were about them. Sam liked playing it safe and working by the book. Eames liked challenges, coming up with creative solutions to even the dullest problems. Arthur liked pointing out flaws. When Gaby tried to raise a debate, neither tried to fight their case. Gaby was starting to think this had been a bad idea, after all.

In the end, the extraction was flawlessly executed.

In the end, Eames parted ways smiling, shaking hands with all of them.

In the end, Arthur gave Sam a peck in the cheek before Gaby said his goodbyes, but only after Eames was gone.

 

 ///

 

Eames never got around to erasing Arthur's number from his phone. He was a business contact. Eames never deleted business contacts, not even when they sold him out. Especially if they sold him out. Arthur hadn't, but that was beside the point. The point was that Eames, of course, had kept the number.

Which, sometimes, made it especially hard not to text him-- or even worse, to drunk dial him-- after Eames had had too many drinks. This time it had been very close; he had already written the text and everything, but he had stopped to read it before hitting send, because contrary to popular opinion, Eames followed certain protocols with himself and one of them was thinking it twice before using his phone while inebriated.

_y her?_

Very carefully, extremely concentrated so that he didn't fumble, he selected the option and deleted the message. Eames sighed, relieved.

Yes, it was hard, but Eames thrived on challenges.

 

 ///

 

Arthur actually disliked firearms in real life. They were a pain to travel with, a pain to hide, a pain to take out when you had them hidden and a pain to clean up after if you were forced to shoot them. They nearly always brought more trouble than they were worth. Nearly. The other thing Arthur actually disliked heartily, was surprises. He took out his phone.

_Need a G. I'm in Kaunas. Ideas?_

He sent the SMS to Eames. Arthur knew that he had been living in Lithuania for a while. Arthur also knew that Eames disliked firearms even more than he did, but he was an expert in networking and had contacts in every city of every country in every planet of the Solar System. Arthur's list of contacts wasn't small, but it wasn't like Eames'. His phone bleeped.

_but drlin, caryin wld ruin the prfct lines of ur prfct suit!_

It was just Eames' way to mock surprise in the face of Arthur's obvious lack of preparation, but it sort of rang a bell in Arthur's memory and that gave him pause. It took him a while to catch the reference. He stood there, looking at the screen of his phone for a long while. He was pretty sure that hadn't become one of the standardized rumors about his person, it wasn't something Eames had heard and was now repeating. It was just Eames' sense of humor.

Arthur breathed deeply; he had been staring for too long, he realized. He started typing.

_Y/N?_

The reply wasn't immediate, but it was swift enough.

_on it, u dikhed_

Arthur fought a smile. He just... he just pocketed his phone and went back to researching, telling Sam it was being taken care of. She nodded, tense. She tended to avoid risky jobs and liked firearms a lot less than Arthur and Eames combined. About forty minutes later, he heard a new bleep.

_ask n u shll reciv. chk ur email._

Arthur did. He didn't reply to say thanks because it wasn't necessary. This was Eames, he already knew.

 

 ///

 

Tonight, Arthur was going to tell Sam that he loved her.

They had taken some time off and the past weeks had been going really well. They had been to the movies, they had read in Arthur's living room, they had gone out at night, they had done some outings, drove up the Jersey Shore, Cape May, Wildwood... but now they were back and Arthur had suggested a walk in the park.

At some point, Arthur pulled her close from their joined hands and kissed her.

She went immediately pliant and opened her lips, welcoming him, pressing near as Arthur cupped the nape of her neck and deepened the kiss.

_I love you,_ Arthur rehearsed in his head. It was actually easy.

The kiss dragged on, slow, languid.

_I love you._

She smelled good and her lips were soft, her tongue delicate against his.

_But I wouldn't die for you._

Suddenly Arthur stopped. There was an expectant silent in his mind after that stray idea had popped up out of nowhere, like those creepy convection movements milk did when it was about to start boiling. And right after, all hell broke loose and his thoughts started shouting hysterically all at once. And in Arthur's head, on a regular basis, inhabited millions and millions of thoughts meticulously ordered by priority and thematic and usefulness, and they all lived civilly, in harmony, in peace, taking turns to talk, but now all of them were screaming and juxtaposing and mixing and manifesting themselves at once and it was a bit too much for him to process without stopping everything else.

_Ohmygod_ , thought the part of him that was more him than the part of him that threw ridiculous ideas at the first part.

Because it was the truth, he wouldn't die for her. But that was not the horrifying part, although it was horrifying enough in that it thwarted Arthur's plan after all the effort he had put into fulfilling it, but no, that wasn't half as bad as the insidious notion (the most resilient parasite is always an idea) that he would take a bullet for Eames. Which wasn't the same as being willing to die for him, because he certainly wasn't. But say, if the situation was desperate enough, adrenaline-filled enough, fast enough, and Arthur wasn't given the time to think, he would jump instinctively and take a bullet for Eames. Nowhere vital, mind you, because, and this was important, Arthur wasn't really willing to sacrifice his life for anyone, but he would take it. Without being more than moderately annoyed by it. Whereas he would be more than moderately annoyed if he had to take a bullet for Sam. Which was unfair to her, but on the other hand, the theoretically bright side was that it was also improbable that that ever happened-- so no harm done-- because she liked to play safe, always rejected risky jobs and there was no place for lost bullets in a life with her, there was no place for being the most badass motherfuckers in a life with her, there was no place for being the best, only for being very good. And actually Arthur had thought that he liked to play safe, that he was the one always rejecting risky jobs, that he preferred being alive to being the best, but maybe he had been wrong and this was not what he really wanted and maybe he hadn't even been who he had thought he was and maybe, just maybe, he was just plainly stupid.

Because he had gone about it all wrong. Because maybe the problem had been him all along, maybe he had some sort of congenital defect that blocked the way of lepidopterans to his belly, and if that was the case, if this was a sort of 'all or nothing' or rather 'no one' situation, he'd rather take that bullet for Eames.

_Fuck,_ he thought.

Tonight, Arthur was going to tell Sam that he loved her.

“I'm sorry,” was what went past his lips instead.

 

 ///

 

Arthur was far too used to being right. The current situation was deeply unsettling for a man like him and that brought the kind of chaos that had to be sorted from the outside.

And that's how he found himself in Dom's backyard, drinking beer and spilling his beans like he hadn't done since... well, like he had never done. Because he didn't talk about these things, he didn't like it and didn't need it. Except, maybe, this time he did.

Dom was a very patient man. He had always been, save for the exceptional occasions where desperation took the best of him, but those times were long past now. So he listened and drank his beer without looking at Arthur, eyes lost in the greenery of his garden as the night fell around them and the kids slept in their rooms.

When Arthur was moderately sure he had told him everything, he shut up. Dom kept on looking elsewhere, silent. They sat there for a while, listening to the dusk insects raise their ruckus. It was a warm night.

“I can't wear vests,” Dom said finally, still not looking at him, “I detest them.”

Arthur tried to be a good boy and exhaled slowly instead of punching Dom. He hated cryptic bullshit. But Dom was good at knowing what people wanted, what people needed, so Arthur humored him and gave it some thought.

“Are you saying Eames is a vest?” he asked incredulously after a while. “Is this a very weird, politically correct way to say you're not a homosexual or something?”

Dom threw a reproachful look at him, as if Arthur was being deliberately dense. But no, Arthur's bewilderment was honest. Dom tried again.

“I don't really enjoy Bach, his music doesn't make me feel alive, just bored.”

Arthur frowned, but he thought he was starting to suspect what Dom's point was. Arthur loved Bach. He tried to hide it because he didn't want anyone to think that he was just a poser, a wannabe hipster who said classical music was great but wouldn't know more than Beethoven's 9th Symphony. It was inconceivable for him that someone could say Bach was boring. Dom knew. And he was trying to tell him something.

So Arthur nodded, even if he still wasn't sure he got it. Dom more or less smiled at him, it was that kind of tense attempt at smiling he did with everyone except Philippa and James, but Arthur knew it was honest.

Dom went inside and left Arthur in the porch, thinking.

 

 ///

 

Arthur had had a lot of time to think, but it wasn't as if it had helped him much.

He considered calling Eames, but he didn't know what to tell him. Arthur didn't know what he himself wanted, much less what Eames might want now-- surely nothing-- now, Arthur resumed his line of thought, that it was probably too late because Arthur was an ass and blind and stupid. So, okay, maybe Arthur did know what he wanted. Or what he had wanted. It was just what everyone else ever wanted, right? So it was not really his fault what had happened. Only it was. And it hadn't really happened, not in the strict sense of the word. In fact, if there was a way to describe what had happened between Arthur and Eames, emotion-wise at least, the best word to use would be 'nothing'. Even if it was unfair and nor completely right, because there had been something, only they had both looked elsewhere and now Arthur had really, really, really fucked up. And only because there hadn't been stupid winged worms in his stomach. Or because they hadn't been to the movies together, or gone clubbing together, or had a walk in the park together, much less move in together. Because there hadn't been flowers, or chocolates, or anniversaries, or those little kisses people gave when they met or when they parted. There hadn't been sweet nothings under the moonlight or serenades under anyone's balcony. There hadn't been butterflies when their eyes met. Complicity, sure, laughter, definitely, heat, in spades. But not butterflies. And Arthur had thought back then that desire wasn't love, and friendship wasn't love, and an excellent professional partnership most definitely wasn't love, and Arthur had wanted love, had wanted what Mal and Dom had had, had wanted that feeling that swept you off your feet, the kind of epic stuff that shattered your heart in a million pieces and gave meaning to life, the feeling that filled his bookshelves and helped to line the pockets of Hollywood producers with obscene amounts of money. Because, having seen it in the Cobbs, Arthur had known for a fact that it was real.

He had seen Dom having orgasms while eating spinach and Arthur had wanted to, too. Only, Arthur abhorred spinach. It had been stupid of him to think that the orgasms were in the spinach in the first place. For him, they would have been in Bach.

Because-- and Arthur couldn't bang his head against the wall enough times about it-- he actually didn't like dancing, thought that walking in the park was only marginally less boring than watching golf, and wasn't ready to live with another person just now. Because he didn't like flowers and had never understood how come they're used to symbolize affection when after a week they've withered and died, that he didn't need to celebrate anniversaries because it made him think of marking the time you've spent in prison with notches on the wall of your cell, or your highest record on your latest Tetris game, or something. Because he found it awkward and kind of horrifying to have to give kisses for routine instead of because you felt like kissing someone, because he actually disliked people bullshitting him with cheesy lines when taking him to bed was easier if they only just fucking asked. Because, in fact, he didn't like talking about feelings and didn't want to listen about them, either, because actions were, indeed, more eloquent than three empty words.

Summing up, that Arthur was an idiot.

And he wasn't even sure what role Eames played in all that. Because it wasn't as if they had been madly in love without knowing, they had just clicked. Clicked together in a way nobody had ever clicked with Arthur before, not even Dom, no, scratch that, least of all Dom.

Eames was... Eames was just like him, in a sense, Arthur thought. Not into flowers, or into anniversaries, or into confessing under the moonlight. Undemanding. Not out of respect, but because he didn't really want all those things from Arthur, he was just comfortable with what Arthur had to give because Eames was just cautious like that. He didn't let things get to him. But that wasn't the same as saying things didn't get to him. What Eames really didn't allow was for it to show. Eames was... he was complicated. He hadn't needed butterflies. Eames rarely needed anything because that implied dependency and he made a habit of always being ready to walk out the door without fighting. But that didn't mean Eames didn't want anything. Only that he would always keep on living even if he didn't get it.

And Arthur... Arthur didn't have the slightest idea how much longer their chunk of 'present' could have lasted if he hadn't thrown it all away, but suddenly he really fucking wanted to know, because if he had learned something out of all of this, was that he was a man of action, of the 'here and now' and an indefinite chunk of 'present' sounded actually heavenly.

Maybe he wasn't madly in love with Eames. Probably wasn't. But he wanted to be with him as badly as if he were.

“What a mess,” he murmured.

 

 ///

 

It was three in the morning when the phone rang. Not that Eames was nothing if not a night owl, but he tried to adjust to the normal working hours when he was on a job and being jolted awake in the middle of the night didn't really help to regularize his schedule.

His left eyebrow raised on its own when he saw who was calling.

“If you're not bleeding out in an alley and your last wish is to hear my sleep-ragged voice, I'm going to be sorely disappointed,” he deadpanned before his brain-mouth filter was fully working.

It took so much for a reply to come that he actually started fearing that might be the case.

“You should have learned by now not to expect too much from me, Mr. Eames.”

Eames frowned. Arthur sounded a bit off.

“You all right?” He asked, marginally more awake now.

“Do you...?” Arthur asked instead of replying. Well, not really asked. His voiced trailed out before the sentence was finished. Or maybe not, Eames thought when Arthur tried again. “Do you?”

Eames looked at the phone with all the exasperation he was feeling.

“Do I what?” he snapped when he took it to his ear again.

“You know,” Arthur said, as if it were the truth. Which it wasn't, because Eames didn't have the slightest clue what the hell he was talking about. “Still.”

It wasn't immediate. Probably a handful of seconds went by before Eames made the connection and his blood froze in his veins. Because, impossible as it might seem, Eames knew now what Arthur was asking. And he had no right, really, he didn't, but when had that ever stopped him? And, more importantly, why did he suddenly want to know? What...?

Eames let out the air in his lungs, slowly, and tried to think. It didn't always work, the thinking, not with Arthur. Because with him sometimes you observed, and pondered, and pressed the green button and you got the food, and other times you observed, and pondered, and pressed the green button and obtained the electric shock. And, let's face it, Eames was fed up with the electric shocks. Everything would be much easier if he didn't crave that damned food so much. If it wasn't so fucking delicious. So fucking good.

So he took his sweet time, not because he was being a bastard, but because he truly didn't know how to reply to that. But Arthur, impatient Arthur, asshole extraordinaire Arthur for once in his life didn't hang up, just kept silent and waited.

“Yes,” Eames breathed in the end, because you could do a limited number of things with self-respect and fucking wasn't one of them.

And then... Arthur hung up.

Eames stared at his phone. First incredulous because, really, what the fuck. Then with hatred, the kind of furious, narrow-eyed look that spoke of an immediate Olympic cellphone-throwing out of the window, or against the wall, or down that damned volcano in Mordor where the One Ring had gone.

In the end, however, he just put the phone down carefully on the side table and promised and vowed and swore by everything he had once held sacred that never, ever, not even under threat of death or gruesome duress he was going to push the fucking green button again.

 

 ///

 

Eames had just arrived in his room and barely had the time to take off his jacket when he heard a knock on the door. That didn't bode well. He made a quick mental list of people he could possibly have pissed off lately. It was long, but he didn't think it warranted something as drastic as having him killed.

“Eames,” he heard, sound muffled by the thick door.

He froze. It had been nearly sixteen hours since he had nearly smashed his cellphone against the wall. Eames had seen enough things in his life to forever change his definition of impossible, so he opened the door.

Arthur looked as good and pristine as if he had just come out of the Arthur-making factory. Wrinkleless suit, adjusted tie, gelled back hair, the whole set. Eames didn't wonder how come he didn't look jet-lagged or what the hell he was doing outside the door of his hotel room in Corsica. Eames didn't think at all. He just threw Arthur the meanest right hook his fist was able to come up with. In fact, he hadn't been aware he had it in him. Maybe he should have pursued career as a boxer.

He looked down to the immobile figure on the ground, nursing his sore hand. Eames was quick, but Arthur was quicker and hadn't been caught unaware. He had seen it coming. It had been too fast to pay conscious attention, but in hindsight, Eames thought he had seen Arthur closing his eyes before the impact. Arthur was a good fighter, he was painfully aware of his slim build and used it to his advantage, never taking a blow full force if he could avoid it.

Eames stared at the knocked out man for a while longer. He pondered leaving him there. It would serve him right. What the fuck, he owed him nothing. He went back to his room and closed the door.

It took him nearly a minute to open it again and drag Arthur's unconscious body inside.

 

 ///

 

Arthur came to on the floor of Eames' room because Eames obviously thought that the bed was too good for him. That or he wanted to keep the concepts of Arthur and bed as far apart as humanly possible. Eames was looking down at him without a definite expression on his face, his arms crossed as he casually leaned against a rather quaint chest of drawers.

Arthur had a pillow under his head and a bag of ice on his jaw. He didn't moan, but Eames knew for a fact that his face, his head and probably his neck hurt like a bitch. Arthur was a big boy, though, he had sported worse wounds and Eames felt absolutely no regrets.

“I'm not impressed at your attempt at penitence,” he sneered. “I'm not six anymore.”

Arthur's words were unclear by the swelling and the cold.

“I wasn't--”

“You were. You bloody were. I know you're not trying to bullshit me, you're just deluding yourself, but a bit of self-awareness would do you tons of good.”

Arthur, in the light of the recent events, couldn't honestly refute that.

“Well... maybe I feel a bit better,” he admitted, mouth moving clumsily and slurring the words. “Not physically-wise, obviously, but still. Don't you feel better yourself?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do. But not enough to take you back in. I don't think there are enough Arthur-shaped punching bags in the world to manage that.”

Arthur forced himself to slow down and take a look at Eames' body language, avoiding his face. The forger didn't sound-- much less look-- particularly angry, but it was still glaringly obvious that he was. His speech was too fast, his sentences too clipped, his meanings too clear. Arthur wasn't sure if it was a good or a bad thing that things had finally gotten to Eames.

“You said you still...”

“So what,” Eames cut him before he could fully formulate that. There wasn't so much to formulate anyway, not with the way they hadn't really spoken about it, the way they never really talked about things. “You could have been asking if I still gamble, or if I still like Madonna, or if I still wank sometimes with my left hand so that it doesn't feel exactly like it's me. 'I still' all of those.”

Arthur closed his eyes, but it wasn't in defeat. He adjusted the bag of ice on his face-- it was starting to burn too much on the same place-- and let his eyelids flutter open again. Eames didn't make a sound. Arthur's eyes fixed on Eames' belt buckle; his voice when he next spoke was low but confident. Calm. Like the voice of someone who is certain of holding the truth.

“But you knew it wasn't that. You. Knew.” Arthur was being a true bastard about it, Eames thought. But then, Arthur was a true bastard about everything. Arthur was a true bastard, period. Arthur confirmed it once more when he dished out his last low blow, barely whispered: “And, yet, you said 'yes'.”

Eames debated with himself if he wanted to kick Arthur in the ribs or just go out to get shitfaced.

“Get me a fucking painkiller already,” Arthur moaned from the floor, breaking the moment. It was the kind of bitchy attitude Arthur only had off the job. Scratch that. Only had around Eames. It shouldn't be flattering, really. In fact, it tipped the scales and made Eames decide in favor of kicking him in the ribs, so he did. But not very hard, because Eames was obviously a sucker.

When he knelt by Arthur to hand him the pills, which Arthur dry swallowed because Eames hadn't brought him a glass of water, he made the mistake of not getting up immediately after.

“Ask me,” Arthur said softly, looking him in the eye for the first time since he had arrived. And he stopped at that, the son of a bitch, like expecting Eames to understand, which of course he did. Like expecting Eames to forgive, which of course he couldn't. “I'll do it.”

Eames sighed. Arthur had always had trouble understanding that life wasn't a perfect score you had to balance to be at peace. That some points weighted more than others. That compensation didn't work that way. That you couldn't decide things were magically right because everybody would rather they were.

“If you suck me off tomorrow, I'll think about it,” Eames said, because he was a true bastard, too, and tomorrow Arthur's jaw was going to hurt tenfold what it was hurting now, and if Arthur wanted to prove himself, Eames had no trouble being a righteous prick about it.

“I will,” Arthur said without a trace of doubt about it, because obviously he had come to the same conclusion about self-respect Eames had the day before.

Eames sighed again. He had pressed the red button this time and this was what he got? Conductivism theories were utter crap. He was usually better at people than this. Arthur was usually better at anything than this. From true bastards Eames demoted them both to sad idiots.

“You're a sad idiot, Arthur.”

“Then we match.”

Eames went still for a moment. It was such a perfect answer that he closed his eyes and inwardly surrendered. When he opened them again, Arthur was looking at him with bright eyes, not daring a smile because of his swollen face. Without thinking, Eames reached out and traced softly the contour of Arthur's right eyebrow.

“That we do,” he whispered, before lying down beside Arthur, on the hard floor.

They lay like that for a minute, till Eames nudged Arthur's still sore ribs.

“Give me half of the pillow, you son of a bitch.”

“I'm injured. Go and fuck yourself.”

But the thing was that Arthur gave up half of the pillow.

All night long, neither of them made a gesture towards the bed. It was stupid, and uncomfortable, and lacking all sense or logic, Arthur thought, but as far as happy endings went, it beat riding away into the sunset anytime.

 

 


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After asking for prompts on Livejournal, marourin requested a snippet in this universe. Somehow, it became kind of an epilogue, so I'm posting it here. My deepest thanks, as always, to Avierra for the beta-reading.

The morning after was exactly that, a morning after. When Arthur woke, Eames was not in the room. When Eames got back, Arthur was gone. When they weighed their annoyance against their relief at the development, they both found that the relief won.

It was only when Eames had gone to bed that he heard Arthur come in. He hadn't given him a key, but the hotel was old and small and the locks weren't particularly difficult to pick.

The rustle of clothes told Eames that Arthur was undressing and, when Arthur finally got under the covers, Eames sighed, resigned to what was to come. It wasn't that he didn't think he actually deserved the best blowjob in the world right now, it was that he was still too angry to want it. And so, after some not particularly kind maneuvering, he got Arthur's bruised face away from his groin and made him the small spoon, hands firmly holding Arthur's wrists and Eames' superior body mass quieting his wriggling. Even looking just at his nape, Eames could feel Arthur glaring. He didn't appreciate being manhandled, but well, Eames didn't appreciate being manipulated, so that was that.

“So, you've reconsidered your condition of me sucking you off today.”

Eames shouldn't marvel at how low Arthur's voice was, but he still did, even after all this time.

“You're not going to be at your best and I don't particularly care for a sloppy, half-arsed effort.”

Arthur wriggled again and Eames tightened his grip. Arthur smelled good, it was one of his best qualities, his knack for smelling heavenly even in the worst situations. He was also warm, and alive and a fucking bastard, and Eames couldn't help rubbing his erection against his ass, just to remember how it felt, what a perfect fit they made like that. Arthur took it as his cue and pressed back, letting the tiniest contented sigh escape his lips at the sensation, like the one you let out at the first sip of a cold beer after a long summer day. It was too much and too little and Eames didn't want to do this, not right now, so he bit Arthur's shoulder, bit it hard, containing Arthur's thrashing about with little effort. Arthur let out a keening sound and tried to press back again but, this time, Eames didn't push forward and their midsections didn't meet. Arthur's attitude changed at that and became pensive. Eames knew he sometimes played up his sluttiness to please his partners and get what he wanted, but it was still funny to see him switch it on and off like it was an act.

“So, you don't want to hurt me but you do want to hurt me,” Arthur murmured.

“Yes,” Eames said. He actually hadn't expected Arthur to interpret his negative of a blowjob and the bite for what they were.

“And, let me guess, you want to fuck me but you don't want to fuck me, too.”

“Yes.”

“I'm getting good at this.”

“More than good, glorious. With your deep understanding of human feelings and your vast reserves of empathy you could become a very successful therapist in no time.”

“You should make sure you singsong a bit more your sarcastic comments. Nobody ever gets your irony because you use exactly the same tone for serious statements.”

Eames couldn't really deny that, but it was part of what made it funny.

“You get it,” he said instead of arguing the point. “My irony.”

Arthur paused at that. It was the truth, but only because he knew Eames too well. It was quite the achievement, really, no easy feat, taking into account how paradoxically reserved Eames was, hiding behind his openness and friendly façade.

“Anyway, you should make sure to singsong your jokes a bit more,” Eames was saying, “nobody gets them, either.”

“You do,” was Arthur's automatic response.

“Because I know you well. Which, I'll have you know, it's quite a bit more to my merit than yours.”

And yes, Arthur knew, Arthur was painfully aware of that, Arthur was actually so overwhelmed by the truth of it that couldn't take it anymore and, twisting suddenly around, releasing the grip Eames had on his wrists, he sent his headache to Hell, sent the pain in his mandible to Hell, sent the pain in his ribs, in his neck and the strangely deep-seated ache inside his chest (that one was new, but it was definitely there) to Hell and kissed Eames, kissed him with all he had. Eames, who kissed back but was dead-set, Arthur knew, not to let things get much further than that tonight. Eames, always Eames. Warm, and alive and a bit of a bastard.

 _Fuck the butterflies,_ Arthur thought, _I have Eames now._

 

 

 


End file.
